The Titan tod-2

by Theodore Dreiser

  “Bevy! I think that rather nice.”

  “I always like it, too. Somehow it seems to suit her, and yet I don’t know why.”

  Before dinner Berenice made her appearance, freshened by a bath and clad in a light summer dress that appeared to Cowperwood to be all flounces, and the more graceful in its lines for the problematic absence of a corset. Her face and hands, however—a face thin, long, and sweetly hollow, and hands that were slim and sinewy—gripped and held his fancy. He was reminded in the least degree of Stephanie; but this girl’s chin was firmer and more delicately, though more aggressively, rounded. Her eyes, too, were shrewder and less evasive, though subtle enough.

  “So I meet you again,” he observed, with a somewhat aloof air, as she came out on the porch and sank listlessly into a wicker chair. “The last time I met you you were hard at work in New York.”

  “Breaking the rules. No, I forget; that was my easiest work. Oh, Rolfe,” she called over her shoulder, indifferently, “I see your pocket-knife out on the grass.”

  Cowperwood, properly suppressed, waited a brief space. “Who won that exciting game?”

  “I did, of course. I always win at tether-ball.”

  “Oh, do you?” commented Cowperwood.

  “I mean with brother, of course. He plays so poorly.” She turned to the west—the house faced south—and studied the road which came up from Stroudsburg. “I do believe that’s Harry Kemp,” she added, quite to herself. “If so, he’ll have my mail, if there is any.”

  She got up again and disappeared into the house, coming out a few moments later to saunter down to the gate, which was over a hundred feet away. To Cowperwood she seemed to float, so hale and graceful was she. A smart youth in blue serge coat, white trousers, and white shoes drove by in a high-seated trap.

  “Two letters for you,” he called, in a high, almost falsetto voice. “I thought you would have eight or nine. Blessed hot, isn’t it?” He had a smart though somewhat effeminate manner, and Cowperwood at once wrote him down as an ass. Berenice took the mail with an engaging smile. She sauntered past him reading, without so much as a glance. Presently he heard her voice within.

  “Mother, the Haggertys have invited me for the last week in August. I have half a mind to cut Tuxedo and go. I like Bess Haggerty.”

  “Well, you’ll have to decide that, dearest. Are they going to be at Tarrytown or Loon Lake?”

  “Loon Lake, of course,” came Berenice’s voice.

  What a world of social doings she was involved in, thought Cowperwood. She had begun well. The Haggertys were rich coal-mine operators in Pennsylvania. Harris Haggerty, to whose family she was probably referring, was worth at least six or eight million. The social world they moved in was high.

  They drove after dinner to The Saddler, at Saddler’s Run, where a dance and “moonlight promenade” was to be given. On the way over, owing to the remoteness of Berenice, Cowperwood for the first time in his life felt himself to be getting old. In spite of the vigor of his mind and body, he realized constantly that he was over fifty-two, while she was only seventeen. Why should this lure of youth continue to possess him? She wore a white concoction of lace and silk which showed a pair of smooth young shoulders and a slender, queenly, inimitably modeled neck. He could tell by the sleek lines of her arms how strong she was.

  “It is perhaps too late,” he said to himself, in comment. “I am getting old.”

  The freshness of the hills in the pale night was sad.

  Saddler’s, when they reached there after ten, was crowded with the youth and beauty of the vicinity. Mrs. Carter, who was prepossessing in a ball costume of silver and old rose, expected that Cowperwood would dance with her. And he did, but all the time his eyes were on Berenice, who was caught up by one youth and another of dapper mien during the progress of the evening and carried rhythmically by in the mazes of the waltz or schottische. There was a new dance in vogue that involved a gay, running step—kicking first one foot and then the other forward, turning and running backward and kicking again, and then swinging with a smart air, back to back, with one’s partner. Berenice, in her lithe, rhythmic way, seemed to him the soul of spirited and gracious ease—unconscious of everybody and everything save the spirit of the dance itself as a medium of sweet emotion, of some far-off, dreamlike spirit of gaiety. He wondered. He was deeply impressed.

  “Berenice,” observed Mrs. Carter, when in an intermission she came forward to where Cowperwood and she were sitting in the moonlight discussing New York and Kentucky social life, “haven’t you saved one dance for Mr. Cowperwood?”

  Cowperwood, with a momentary feeling of resentment, protested that he did not care to dance any more. Mrs. Carter, he observed to himself, was a fool.

  “I believe,” said her daughter, with a languid air, “that I am full up. I could break one engagement, though, somewhere.”

  “Not for me, though, please,” pleaded Cowperwood. “I don’t care to dance any more, thank you.”

  He almost hated her at the moment for a chilly cat. And yet he did not.

  “Why, Bevy, how you talk! I think you are acting very badly this evening.”

  “Please, please,” pleaded Cowperwood, quite sharply. “Not any more. I don’t care to dance any more.”

  Bevy looked at him oddly for a moment—a single thoughtful glance.

  “But I have a dance, though,” she pleaded, softly. “I was just teasing. Won’t you dance it with me?”

  “I can’t refuse, of course,” replied Cowperwood, coldly.

  “It’s the next one,” she replied.

  They danced, but he scarcely softened to her at first, so angry was he. Somehow, because of all that had gone before, he felt stiff and ungainly. She had managed to break in upon his natural savoir faire—this chit of a girl. But as they went on through a second half the spirit of her dancing soul caught him, and he felt more at ease, quite rhythmic. She drew close and swept him into a strange unison with herself.

  “You dance beautifully,” he said.

  “I love it,” she replied. She was already of an agreeable height for him.

  It was soon over. “I wish you would take me where the ices are,” she said to Cowperwood.

  He led her, half amused, half disturbed at her attitude toward him.

  “You are having a pleasant time teasing me, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I am only tired,” she replied. “The evening bores me. Really it does. I wish we were all home.”

  “We can go when you say, no doubt.”

  As they reached the ices, and she took one from his hand, she surveyed him with those cool, dull blue eyes of hers—eyes that had the flat quality of unglazed Dutch tiles.

  “I wish you would forgive me,” she said. “I was rude. I couldn’t help it. I am all out of sorts with myself.”

  “I hadn’t felt you were rude,” he observed, lying grandly, his mood toward her changing entirely.

  “Oh yes I was, and I hope you will forgive me. I sincerely wish you would.”

  “I do with all my heart—the little that there is to forgive.”

  He waited to take her back, and yielded her to a youth who was waiting. He watched her trip away in a dance, and eventually led her mother to the trap. Berenice was not with them on the home drive; some one else was bringing her. Cowperwood wondered when she would come, and where was her room, and whether she was really sorry, and— As he fell asleep Berenice Fleming and her slate-blue eyes were filling his mind completely.

  Chapter XLIII.

  The Planet Mars

  The banking hostility to Cowperwood, which in its beginning had made necessary his trip to Kentucky and elsewhere, finally reached a climax. It followed an attempt on his part to furnish funds for the building of elevated roads. The hour for this new form of transit convenience had struck. The public demanded it. Cowperwood saw one elevated road, the South Side Alley Line, being built, and another, the West Side Metropolitan Line, being proposed, largely, as he knew, in
order to create sentiment for the idea, and so to make his opposition to a general franchise difficult. He was well aware that if he did not choose to build them others would. It mattered little that electricity had arrived finally as a perfected traction factor, and that all his lines would soon have to be done over to meet that condition, or that it was costing him thousands and thousands to stay the threatening aspect of things politically. In addition he must now plunge into this new realm, gaining franchises by the roughest and subtlest forms of political bribery. The most serious aspect of this was not political, but rather financial. Elevated roads in Chicago, owing to the sparseness of the population over large areas, were a serious thing to contemplate. The mere cost of iron, right of way, rolling-stock, and power-plants was immense. Being chronically opposed to investing his private funds where stocks could just as well be unloaded on the public, and the management and control retained by him, Cowperwood, for the time being, was puzzled as to where he should get credit for the millions to be laid down in structural steel, engineering fees, labor, and equipment before ever a dollar could be taken out in passenger fares. Owing to the advent of the World’s Fair, the South Side ‘L’—to which, in order to have peace and quiet, he had finally conceded a franchise—was doing reasonably well. Yet it was not making any such return on the investment as the New York roads. The new lines which he was preparing would traverse even less populous sections of the city, and would in all likelihood yield even a smaller return. Money had to be forthcoming—something between twelve and fifteen million dollars—and this on the stocks and bonds of a purely paper corporation which might not yield paying dividends for years to come. Addison, finding that the Chicago Trust Company was already heavily loaded, called upon various minor but prosperous local banks to take over the new securities (each in part, of course). He was astonished and chagrined to find that one and all uniformly refused.

  “I’ll tell you how it is, Judah,” one bank president confided to him, in great secrecy. “We owe Timothy Arneel at least three hundred thousand dollars that we only have to pay three per cent. for. It’s a call-loan. Besides, the Lake National is our main standby when it comes to quick trades, and he’s in on that. I understand from one or two friends that he’s at outs with Cowperwood, and we can’t afford to offend him. I’d like to, but no more for me—not at present, anyhow.”

  “Why, Simmons,” replied Addison, “these fellows are simply cutting off their noses to spite their faces. These stock and bond issues are perfectly good investments, and no one knows it better than you do. All this hue and cry in the newspapers against Cowperwood doesn’t amount to anything. He’s perfectly solvent. Chicago is growing. His lines are becoming more valuable every year.”

  “I know that,” replied Simmons. “But what about this talk of a rival elevated system? Won’t that injure his lines for the time being, anyhow, if it comes into the field?”

  “If I know anything about Cowperwood,” replied Addison, simply, “there isn’t going to be any rival elevated road. It’s true they got the city council to give them a franchise for one line on the South Side; but that’s out of his territory, anyhow, and that other one to the Chicago General Company doesn’t amount to anything. It will be years and years before it can be made to pay a dollar, and when the time comes he will probably take it over if he wants it. Another election will be held in two years, and then the city administration may not be so unfavorable. As it is, they haven’t been able to hurt him through the council as much as they thought they would.”

  “Yes; but he lost the election.”

  “True; but it doesn’t follow he’s going to lose the next one, or every one.”

  “Just the same,” replied Simmons, very secretively, “I understand there’s a concerted effort on to drive him out. Schryhart, Hand, Merrill, Arneel—they’re the most powerful men we have. I understand Hand says that he’ll never get his franchises renewed except on terms that’ll make his lines unprofitable. There’s going to be an awful smash here one of these days if that’s true.” Mr. Simmons looked very wise and solemn.

  “Never believe it,” replied Addison, contemptuously. “Hand isn’t Chicago, neither is Schryhart, nor Arneel. Cowperwood is a brainy man. He isn’t going to be put under so easily. Did you ever hear what was the real bottom cause of all this disturbance?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard,” replied Simmons.

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I do. Still, I don’t know that that need have anything to do with it. Money envy is enough to make any man fight. This man Hand is very powerful.”

  Not long after this Cowperwood, strolling into the president’s office of the Chicago Trust Company, inquired: “Well, Judah, how about those Northwestern ‘L’ bonds?”

  “It’s just as I thought, Frank,” replied Addison, softly. “We’ll have to go outside of Chicago for that money. Hand, Arneel, and the rest of that crowd have decided to combine against us. That’s plain. Something has started them off in full cry. I suppose my resignation may have had something to do with it. Anyhow, every one of the banks in which they have any hand has uniformly refused to come in. To make sure that I was right I even called up the little old Third National of Lake View and the Drovers and Traders on Forty-seventh Street. That’s Charlie Wallin’s bank. When I was over in the Lake National he used to hang around the back door asking for anything I could give him that was sound. Now he says his orders are from his directors not to share in anything we have to offer. It’s the same story everywhere—they daren’t. I asked Wallin if he knew why the directors were down on the Chicago Trust or on you, and at first he said he didn’t. Then he said he’d stop in and lunch with me some day. They’re the silliest lot of old ostriches I ever heard of. As if refusing to let us have money on any loan here was going to prevent us from getting it! They can take their little old one-horse banks and play blockhouses with them if they want to. I can go to New York and in thirty-six hours raise twenty million dollars if we need it.”

  Addison was a little warm. It was a new experience for him. Cowperwood merely curled his mustaches and smiled sardonically.

  “Well, never mind,” he said. “Will you go down to New York, or shall I?”

  It was decided, after some talk, that Addison should go. When he reached New York he found, to his surprise, that the local opposition to Cowperwood had, for some mysterious reason, begun to take root in the East.

  “I’ll tell you how it is,” observed Joseph Haeckelheimer, to whom Addison applied—a short, smug, pussy person who was the head of Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb & Co., international bankers. “We hear odd things concerning Mr. Cowperwood out in Chicago. Some people say he is sound—some not. He has some very good franchises covering a large portion of the city, but they are only twenty-year franchises, and they will all run out by 1903 at the latest. As I understand it, he has managed to stir up all the local elements—some very powerful ones, too—and he is certain to have a hard time to get his franchises renewed. I don’t live in Chicago, of course. I don’t know much about it, but our Western correspondent tells me this is so. Mr. Cowperwood is a very able man, as I understand it, but if all these influential men are opposed to him they can make him a great deal of trouble. The public is very easily aroused.”

  “You do a very able man a great injustice, Mr. Haeckelheimer,” Addison retorted. “Almost any one who starts out to do things successfully and intelligently is sure to stir up a great deal of feeling. The particular men you mention seem to feel that they have a sort of proprietor’s interest in Chicago. They really think they own it. As a matter of fact, the city made them; they didn’t make the city.”

  Mr. Haeckelheimer lifted his eyebrows. He laid two fine white hands, plump and stubby, over the lower buttons of his protuberant waistcoat. “Public favor is a great factor in all these enterprises,” he almost sighed. “As you know, part of a man’s resources lies in his ability to avoid stirring up opposition. It may be that Mr. Cowper
wood is strong enough to overcome all that. I don’t know. I’ve never met him. I’m just telling you what I hear.”

  This offish attitude on the part of Mr. Haeckelheimer was indicative of a new trend. The man was enormously wealthy. The firm of Haeckelheimer, Gotloeb & Co. represented a controlling interest in some of the principal railways and banks in America. Their favor was not to be held in light esteem.

  It was plain that these rumors against Cowperwood in New York, unless offset promptly by favorable events in Chicago, might mean—in the large banking quarters, anyhow—the refusal of all subsequent Cowperwood issues. It might even close the doors of minor banks and make private investors nervous.

  Addison’s report of all this annoyed Cowperwood no little. It made him angry. He saw in it the work of Schryhart, Hand, and others who were trying their best to discredit him. “Let them talk,” he declared, crossly. “I have the street-railways. They’re not going to rout me out of here. I can sell stocks and bonds to the public direct if need be! There are plenty of private people who are glad to invest in these properties.”

  At this psychological moment enter, as by the hand of Fate, the planet Mars and the University. This latter, from having been for years a humble Baptist college of the cheapest character, had suddenly, through the beneficence of a great Standard Oil multimillionaire, flared upward into a great university, and was causing a stir throughout the length and breadth of the educational world.

  It was already a most noteworthy spectacle, one of the sights of the city. Millions were being poured into it; new and beautiful buildings were almost monthly erected. A brilliant, dynamic man had been called from the East as president. There were still many things needed—dormitories, laboratories of one kind and another, a great library; and, last but not least, a giant telescope—one that would sweep the heavens with a hitherto unparalleled receptive eye, and wring from it secrets not previously decipherable by the eye and the mind of man.